This week I had my annual examination, or as more commonly known, my yearly humiliation.
Every time I get in the car without Pocket, I end up at the vet. But, that does not stop me from thinking, when Pocket is put in her crate, and I go outside with my parents, that we are going somewhere magical where Pocket is not allowed.
I sat on mommy’s lap as we steered through town. I smiled at everyone. Then Daddy turned into the vet’s office parking lot. I still smiled, having convinced myself that it was a social visit.
Mommy carried me inside. Any chances that this was a social visit ended when we were told to wait in the foyer. Welcome visitors are never told to sit and wait, only paying customers.
I squirmed to get down. Daddy told Mommy I wanted to explore. Wrong! I remembered the last time I got an exam they asked for a fecal sample. My morning poop had gone in the trash. Even though I do not like the vet, I am accommodating. I took a giant crap in the middle of the floor while wearing a proud expression. To my surprise, the vet tech threw this crap out too. So my crap wasn’t good enough for them? This was not going to be a good trip.
I was brought in the exam room. The techs told me how cute I was. I hate when you go to the doctor’s, and they tell you what you already know. They put me on the scale. I despised the feeling of the metal under my paws and moved around trying to find traction. This caused the reading to fluctuate. The techs waited until the reading was at the highest point, said that was my weight, and declared I gained a pound! So hurtful, and so unprofessional.
Then my back half was firmly gripped, and I realized my precious bodily fluid was under siege. I tensed my muscles, pushed off with my paws, wiggled like a Kardashian trying to escape a pair of tight jeans, all to no avail. The experienced bloodsuckers tapped me dry, or at least enough to fill a tube. I had been violated! How do you take my blood but my discard crap? Momma inquired about the rejection of fecal matter, and the vet said they only test it if presented with a problem. I wish I had known that. I would have saved my poop for the shoes of those who had brought me here.
Then the vicious techs left me. I had a few precious seconds to convince my parents we needed to flee. Neither acquiesced. The door opened, and the vet proper, a lesser-Herriot appeared.
I stood silently while they checked my vital organs. I appreciate this part of the process and fully cooperated. Then the vet smelled inside my ears. "She has yeast," the doctor said. "It smells like Doritos."
Bitch, what? Doritos? Like I didn't smell from behind the door that D'angelo's number nine sub you had for lunch. You best not be coming up in here with a “smells like Doritos" comment when you is all mushroom steak and cheese breath. You be trippin'.
The vet told mommy if she cleaned my ears regularly, I should be fine. Sure, my ears. But what about my pride? She then checked my pearly whites. She pulled my lips back to see the big back teeth where even Julia Roberts has gunk. She found the treasure of tartar. "You might want to consider getting them cleaned," the vet said. Yes, and you might consider a high colonic at noon.
The vet noticed the chafing on my belly. Poppa told her that was from my demanding need to be scratched there three hours a day. The vet nodded. Great, now she thinks I’m cutting.
Finally, the wicked vet of the west left. A few minutes later, the tech told me I had a dormant case of Lyme disease, which I have known about for the past five years. Some blame dormant limes for my sour disposition.
The tech asked if I needed dental work, and my parents declined. Foley and Pocket had dental work done. My parents know bad teeth when they see it, and mine still look good.
And then, when we left, my parents had to pay money for this abuse. I guess getting a reasonably clean if kind of smelly, bill of health was worth it, but I sure hope I don’t see the inside of that place for a year. Now, I have to go. For some reason, I am craving corn chips.